


The Reigate Archaeologist

by CopperBreeches



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBreeches/pseuds/CopperBreeches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks Sherlock needs a holiday. He takes him to Surrey where they house sit for Colonel Hayter but even on holiday Sherlock manages to find a case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reigate Archaeologist

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on ACD's 'The Adventure of the Reigate Squires' (hence the title). I've dropped a few other ACD references in there (have fun spotting them). Minor character death. Many thanks to Nix and staticsilhouette for looking it over.

If there was one thing John had been aware of for a long time it was that Sherlock Holmes didn't do holidays. They were 'dull' or 'pointless' or interfered with 'the work'. The only way to get Sherlock out of London was to offer him a murder. John thought that was a bit drastic but he also knew Sherlock needed a break. 

Back to back cases for two months had prevented Sherlock's boredom but had instead pushed him toward exhaustion. Even Sherlock 'the body is just transport' Holmes was finding the lack of food and sleep was having a negative effect. There was only so much John could do short of tying Sherlock down and he was surprisingly good at unpicking knots, even when he was so pale and tired he could barely keep his eyes open. 

It was fortunate that John had received an e-mail from Colonel Hayter asking of John was available to house sit his home on the village of Betchworth near Reigate. John had once dug a bullet out of the Colonel's leg under fire which had earned him the man's eternal trust. This was the explanation he'd given Sherlock when he'd asked why the Colonel had asked John.

“Why does he need a house sitter anyway?” Sherlock asked as he lay on the sofa, his eyes closed. “He could install an alarm.”

John turned back to the e-mail. “One of his neighbours had a break in last month,” John said. “He's worried. The nearest police station is ten miles away.”

“Did they catch the burglars?”

“We are not going down there so you can solve a crime, Sherlock. You need to rest.”

Sherlock opened an eye. “I can rest here why do I need to go to Surrey?”

“Because in Surrey we're not going to have Lestrade knocking on our door for help or Mycroft texting you to get you involved in another case. You need a break and we're going to Surrey.”

“And what if I don't want to go to Surrey?”

John had been expecting this. “If you don't come I won't tell you where I hid your cigarettes.”

That got Sherlock to sit up. “I can find them, John.”

“What by tearing the flat apart? It didn't work last time.”

“I'll deduce it.” Sherlock got up, though more slowly than usual and made his way over to the skull. He picked it up, his face already bearing a triumphant grin. His expression rapidly changed when he realised the space under the skull was just that and there was no trace of his cigarettes. 

“It's fine,” he said, turning back and throwing himself onto his chair. “I have nicotine patches.”

“Hid them as well,” John said, feeling a little smug. Had Sherlock not been so exhausted John probably would have struggled to outwit him. As it was though Sherlock's genius brain was tired enough for an inferior brain to beat him. 

“I suppose Surrey can't be that dull,” Sherlock muttered. 

Before he could start tearing the flat apart for cigarettes John closed his laptop and got up. “Right, I'll start packing.”

The journey to Surrey wasn't that long. They took the train from London Victoria to Redhill and then changed at Redhill to Betchworth. There was a bit of a walk form the station to the village but John didn't mind. Although Sherlock spent the otherwise pleasant walk complaining that it was hard to get a cab once out of the Greater London area.

“Fresh air, Sherlock, it's good for you.”

“So apparently is two litres of water a day but you won't start drinking that instead of tea.”

The colonel's house did have an alarm but John had been given the code beforehand. Although Sherlock had it worked out within seconds of them entering.

“It's really rather obvious, John; as a military man of course he's going to use his service number for his alarm code.”

The fridge and cupboards were stocked and the Colonel had left detailed notes and instructions about the general area. Reading them John could hear the Colonel's voice giving out orders and consciously stood up a little straighter as he read. 

Sherlock had gone off to look around the house no doubt letting the Colonel's entire life story unfold around him. 

“John!” Sherlock cried excitedly. “There's a sword above the mantelpiece.”

John was beginning to regret agreeing to house sit. He remembered the colonel was very fond of weaponry and had a small collection. What Sherlock would do with several deadly weapons within easy reach he really didn't want to know. 

He found out when he entered the living room and found Sherlock slicing a 'CH' in the wallpaper. 

The next day, it was an effort to keep Sherlock from further vandalism in the name of science.

“I need to compare the blade marks, John. Don't you see how useful it would be?”

“No, Sherlock. Unless there are men running about London attacking people with swords in their own homes.”

“Well, flats, maybe.”

“Sherlock? Is there something you want to tell me?”

“You saw but did not observe, John.”

“Well the Colonel won't want to observe sword marks on his walls so we're going out.”

There wasn't much to really look at in Betchworth it was a small ordinary village. Sherlock did however stop outside Colonel Hayter's neighbour's house and bent down.

“Sherlock, we're not here to solve a crime.”

It seemed Sherlock hadn't heard him. “Footprints, John, look at them. Don't you think they're unusual?”

Reluctantly, John bent down. The ground was gravelly and he could barely make out the imprint of a large foot. The more he looked the more he could see a pattern. “A Wellington boot?” he hazarded.

“Precisely, John. What sort of burglar wears Wellingtons to rob a house?”

John didn't have an answer for that. He also didn't want Sherlock getting worked up about yet another case. He was wondering how to focus Sherlock's interest on something less criminal when he heard a cough from above.

“Can I help you?” a voice said.

“Ah, sorry,” John said, and stood up.

The voice belonged to a young man. If John had to guess he'd put his age about twenty. He had black hair and was wearing jeans. He was also wearing a pair of green Wellington boots. “I'm Alex Cunningham,” the young man said, offering a hand.

Being polite, John shook it. “John Watson,” he said. He looked down at Sherlock who was slowly inching his way along the wall outside the neighbour's house. “And that's Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh you must be the Doctor Watson who writes that blog!” Alex said. 

John smiled awkwardly. “Yes, that's me.”

“Are you investigating Old Mr Acton's break-in?”

“Not officially, no. We're house sitting for Colonel Hayter.”

Alex smiled. “Great man the Colonel. He can shoot a pheasant at fifty feet.”

“You live round here then?” John asked, glancing at the houses and wondering if this was another neighbour.

“Outside the village yes. Squire Farm, it's just down the road.”

“Oh, right, and you know Mr Acton?” John asked. He didn't have to look to know Sherlock would be listening in. He probably shouldn't have asked the question but he couldn't help himself. Sherlock was a bad influence.

“Knew him. He died about two months ago,” Alex said. “Shame really he was a nice old bloke. I mean he and my Dad didn't get on that well but he always said hello.”

“Must have been a shock then to learn his house had been broken into,” Sherlock said, coming up behind John. Experience meant John didn't flinch.

“Yeah it was,” Alex said. “I mean all they stole was a couple of silver candlesticks and and a few books.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said. “You've had a busy morning planting things then?” he asked.

For a moment Alex Cunningham looked a little shocked.

“Your hands,” Sherlock said. “Dirt under the fingernails and your knees have mud on them. You've been kneeling down, probably planting.”

Alex gave a loud laugh and if John didn't know better he would have thought it was a laugh of relief. Then again a lot of people were put off by Sherlock's deductions and they always seemed relieved he wasn't actually a mind reader. “No, I've been helping Doctor Kirwan up at the dig site.”

“Dig site? Oh of course,” Sherlock said. “Archaeology. I should have recognised the mud wasn't topsoil.”

“We've got a copse of trees on our land with a spring,” Alex sad.”It's called Spring copse. A few years ago my Dad found a few coins at the spring site. We didn't think anything of it but then this Doctor Kirwan came and visited us last year and my Dad showed him the coins. He got excited. He thinks it might be a ritual site dating back to the bronze age.”

“Really?” Sherlock said, sounding completely uninterested. 

“So he's there now?” John asked. 

“Yes. If you want I can give you directions.”

John looked over at Sherlock who was still paying far too much attention to the burgled house. 

“Why hasn't it been sold yet?” Sherlock asked. 

Alex shrugged. “Well the housing market being what it is,” he said. “And no-one knows where Mr Acton kept the house deed. Legal stuff, you know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, looking thoughtful.

“Where did you say this site was?” John asked. 

Oddly Sherlock seemed perfectly happy to walk to the site of the spring. The copse itself was small and damp. It was easy enough to find and even easier to find Doctor Kirwan who was in a small trench busily scraping away with a small trowel.

“Hello,” John ventured. 

Doctor Kirwan practically jumped. He looked up and seemed relived to see two relatively friendly faces. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I wasn't expecting any visitors.”

“Sorry,” John said. “We met Alex Cunningham in the village he said you were digging here.”

“Oh, yes, Alex.” Doctor Kirwan said. “He's been a great help to me. And his Dad too. I'm so grateful for them showing me this site. It's quite remarkable. Quite, quite remarkable.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh yes.” Doctor Kirwan stepped out of the trench and bent down to pick up a black tray filled with artefacts. “Here,” he said, thrusting it towards John and Sherlock. “Look we have coins from the Iron Age, several centuries worth of Romano British coinage and this wonderful clasp broach.”

Sherlock reached out and picked up one of the coins. “They’re in very good condition,” he said.

“Yes, the soil round here has caused some issues with the preservation of the metals but overall they are in remarkable condition.”

Sherlock placed the coin back and smiled at Doctor Kirwan. “So you think this was a ritual site?”

Doctor Kirwan nodded. “Undoubtedly. Springs were often given ritual significance as indeed were most bodies of water. You've heard of bog bodies?”

“I did once investigate the murder of a banker called Crosby who'd been thrown into a bog,” Sherlock said. “Of course that was over stocks and shares and not ritual.”

Doctor Kirwan coughed awkwardly. “Yes, well, people and objects used to be sacrificed to the gods in bogs. I believe what we have here are offering made to a local deity.”

“Any idea who?” John asked. It was fairly interesting and crime free. 

“No, but so many of them aren't recorded. I am hoping I might find evidence the more I dig.”

“So you're digging here alone?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes. One of my students, Vinnie Spaulding was up here helping me out, free labour is always welcome, but he's had to go home for a few days, family problems,” Doctor Kirwan said. “Still, Alex has been up here everyday helping me out.”

“Doesn't his father need him on the farm?” Sherlock asked.

“Not at this time of year. It's pretty quiet. Mr Cunningham can manage on his own.”

“Well this has been very interesting,” Sherlock said. “We don’t want to disturb you any further. Come on, John.”

“It was nice meeting you,” John said.

As they walked back to the village John was suspicious. “What was all that about?” he asked. 

“What?”

“You being polite.”

“I thought you liked me being polite,” Sherlock said. “I'm on holiday, can't I be polite?”

“Please tell me you've not discovered a crime,” John said.

“Not discovered one, no.”

John had a funny feeling that even though they were in Surrey Sherlock was still not on holiday. There was nothing he could do though so he just decided to let it go. As long as there weren't any mysterious murders Sherlock couldn't get himself into much trouble.

Two days later and John was beginning to wish he had let Sherlock investigate the break-in further. They had spent most of their time indoors and John had spent it alternating between between preventing Sherlock doing anything with the swords or the guns he'd discovered in a locked cabinet and trying to read the books the Colonel had, a few were interesting military texts, so of course Sherlock wasn't interested. 

The Colonel did seem to have copies of all the local papers which did interest Sherlock and for once he spent time quietly reading. He also slept with what were close to normal hours so John thought the rest was doing him good. 

Then on the day of their fourth stay in the village they were woken up by someone knocking at the door. John went down to answer it. He rubbed at his face, it felt too early for visitors.

He opened the front door to find a man in a suit standing on the doorstep, police ID in his hand. “DI Forrester of the Surrey Constabulary. Are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

“No, I'm John Watson. Is there a problem?”

“We've had a death in unusual circumstances. DI Lestrade suggested I contact Sherlock Holmes. He said he was staying here.”

John recalled telling Greg where they were going, partly to prevent the police turning up looking for them. His plan hadn't worked. 

“Sherlock!” John called. 

Sherlock had been at the top of the stairs but bounded down them with excitement when he realised who was at the door. 

“Where and when?” he asked.

“Last night,” said DI Forrester. “In Spring Copse.”

“Who was it?” John asked.

“Doctor William Kirwan.”

“Christ,” John breathed. They hadn't usually met the victim before they turned up dead. John was already betting it was murder. 

Sherlock was already looking for his coat. “You go ahead, Inspector,” he said. “John and I will join you shortly.”

Inspector Forester nodded his head and left them to it. 

Sherlock raced upstairs to change and with a weary sigh John went in the kitchen, putting a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. It would probably be the only thing they'd eat all day. So much for a holiday. 

When they came to the copse they found the area sealed off by police tape but there wasn't a huge police presence. Of course there probably weren't as many rural policeman as were employed by the Met. DI Forrester met them and led them inside to the crime scene. 

The body of Doctor Kirwan lay in his trench. His coat was muddy and damp. In one hand he had piece of pottery and in the other his trowel. His head was lying next to a rock which was covered in blood. Doctor Kirwan's blood judging by the nasty head wound. 

Sherlock was immediately in the trench, examining the body with gloved hands. “John, I want your opinion on the cause of death.”

John carefully got into the trench. The ground was muddy and slippery. It had obviously rained at some point during the night. “Well death was from a blow to the head,” John said. “It would have been instant.”

“We thought he might have slipped and banged his head,” DI Forrester said. “But we don't know why he was here at night. There's no torch near the body.”

“No torch anywhere?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“It's not an accident, Detective Inspector, it's murder.”

John then noticed another wound toward the back of the man's head. “Sherlock,” he said. “He was hit from behind.”

“Brilliant, John!” Sherlock said, giving John a smile. He looked healthier and happier than he had in ages. “He was hit first, Inspector, and fell onto the rock, saving the murderer some effort.”

“What was he hit with?”

“Some kind of sharp edge,” John said, looking at the wound. “Probably a spade.”

Sherlock got up from the body and began examining the ground. “Too many footprints,” he said. “Half of the footprints are your men, Inspector.”

“They were careful!” Forrester said. “And the ground was already in a state when we arrived.”

“Nearly useless,” Sherlock said. Then he seemed to notice something and bent down. He picked something up and placed it in his pocket with a gloved hand. “Wellington boot,” he murmured as he stood up. 

“What?” John was puzzled.

“Look at the victim’s feet. He's not wearing his boots.”

“Why would an archaeologist be wearing his normal shoes at a dig site?”

“He would if he never intended to come here.” Sherlock was back in the trench. He was now examining the piece of pottery in Doctor Kirwan's hand. “Oh, of course!” he said. He stood up. “Who found the body?”

“Vinnie Spaulding.”

“Doctor Kirwan's assistant?” John asked. “We heard he'd gone home.”

“Came back yesterday. He was due on site this morning and when he got here, well, he found the poor Doctor.”

“Where is he?” Sherlock asked, looking around. “We need to talk to him.”

“He's at the Cunningham’s farm,” Forrester replied.

Sherlock put his hands together. “Perfect. We'll go there now.”

John shrugged at the Inspector and followed Sherlock out of the copse.

The Cunningham's farm wasn't far away, just a short walk. Sherlock strode ahead, occasionally bending down and examining the ground. 

“He's a bit eccentric,” Forrester said. “But he seems to know what he's doing.”

“Oh yes, he knows,” John said. “Sherlock's probably already solved it.”

“Already?”

“Oh yes!” Sherlock shouted back to them. “It's obvious.”

“It is?” Forrester asked.

“Wellington boots!” Sherlock yelled back.

“I need evidence,” Forrester said.

“Sherlock knows that,” John said. “He's got a plan.” John hoped he had. Wellington boots would never stand up in court, not even if Sherlock Holmes was saying it as evidence. Maybe especially if that was the case. 

They rang the door bell and waited. Sherlock paced up and down a few times outside as they waited. The door was opened by young Alex Cunningham. “Detective Inspector,” he said. “And Doctor Watson.” Alex seemed surprised.

“Can we come in?” DI Forrester asked. 

“Yes, of course,” Alex stepped back to let them inside.

Sherlock immediately came to the front and swept his way into the hall. 

“And Mr Holmes,” Alex said. 

“He's helping us with the investigation,” DI Forrester said.

John noticed Sherlock was taking an interest in the hall. There was nothing unusual about it, just a doormat and a few pairs of Wellingtons lined up neatly along the side next to the wall. Then John remembered what Sherlock had murmured.

Before he could say anything Sherlock seemed to stumble into a table further down the hall and knocked something off. John noticed it was an ash tray.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, picking it up. “Do you smoke?” he asked as he handed to Alex Cunningham..

“No, but Dad does,” Alex replied, putting it back on the table. 

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “Shame. Do you know if he's got any cigarettes? I'm gasping.”

“Sherlock,” John said as a warning. He had not brought Sherlock on holiday to smoke. “You're trying to quit, remember?”

“My doctor,” Sherlock said. “John has this ridiculous idea smoking's bad for me. He doesn't realise how nicotine helps the brain.”

“It does?” Alex asked. 

“Is Vinnie Spaulding around?” Sherlock asked, walking down the hall.

Alex struggled to keep up. “Just in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was at the end of the hall. When they entered John saw a young man with ginger hair sat at the table, a mug of tea in his hand. Opposite was a man who looked very like Alex Cunningham, only a good thirty years older, presumably Alex's father. 

“Visitors, Dad,” Alex said. 

“Hello, Mr Cunningham. I'm DI Forrester and this is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson; from London.”

“Sherlock Holmes the detective?” Vinnie asked. He looked pale, but then he had discovered a dead body that morning.

“Yes. You found the body?” Sherlock asked.

Vinnie nodded. “I went down to the site at eight this morning, I wanted to get an early start. Doctor Kirwan left me in charge of cleaning the finds so I knew there was going to be a backlog.”

“You went to London,” Sherlock said.

“Erm... yes. I had to visit my grandmother,” Vinnie said. 

“She lives in the city centre?”

“No, she lived a bit outside. Ealing. How did you know I went to London?”

“Underground ticket still in your pocket,” Sherlock said. “Didn't visit your grandmother though did you? Ealing is in zone three of the London underground. Your ticket says zones one and two. Now where would you be going in zones one and two?”

“I went to visit my grandmother,” Vinnie repeated.

“I don't think you did,” Sherlock said. “I think you went to Portabello Road.”

“The market?” John asked. “Why would he visit an antiques market?”

“To sell the finds dug up at the site. Am I right?” he asked.

Vinnie nodded, looking dejected and deciding it wasn't worth lying. “But I didn't kill Doctor Kirwan. I swear I didn't know he was dead until I came back.”

“I believe you,” Sherlock said. “You were just meant to find buyers for the finds. A poor student like you who wasn't even paid for helping out Doctor Kirwan on the dig? You needed money. So you agreed to help the killers sell the finds.”

“Killers? There’s more than one?” John asked.

“Yes, the same people who broke into Mr Acton's house last month.”

DI Forrester looked confused. “But why would they do that? What's the connection?”

Without warning Sherlock began to sway on his feet. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Do you mind if I sit down? John can tell you I've not been feeling well.”

John was immediately helping to guide Sherlock down to a spare chair. He knew that working again was too much, but Sherlock had looked perfectly healthy earlier. What was going on? Sherlock didn't look that ill and John wouldn't have missed the signs. 

“Could I have a cigarette?” Sherlock asked when he was seated. 

“Sherlock!” John admonished.

“I'm on holiday, John. Just one.”

John sighed.

“Here,” Mr Cunningham said, pulling out a small packet and offering it to Sherlock. 

Sherlock reached over and plucked one out. “You don't happen to have your lighter, do you?”

Mr Cunningham gave a weak smile and patted his coat pockets. “I must have left it in my other coat,” he said. “Sorry.”

Surprising everyone Sherlock leapt to his feet and threw the cigarette over his shoulder. “There’s your connection, Inspector,” Sherlock said. “The men who broke into Mr Acton's house and the men who killed Doctor Kirwan are Mr Cunningham and his son Alex.”

Mr Cunningham stood up, pushing his chair back with some force, and he and his son Alex moved toward Sherlock looking as if they wanted to kill him. John was immediately on the older Mr Cunningham, grabbing his arm and putting it behind his back and restraining him as DI Forrester grabbed firmly hold of Alex Cunningham.

“You can't prove anything!” Cunningham said.

“Oh I can,” Sherlock replied. “Wellington boots and this,” he pulled out a lighter, carefully wrapped in a handkerchief, from his pocket. “Your lighter. You left it at the murder scene,” Sherlock said. 

“You can't prove it's mine!”

“I think we can get some fingerprints off it that can though. And then there's your boots.”

“Yes, what about their Wellingtons?” John asked. “You saw footprints at the crime scene.”

Sherlock smiled. “Very distinctive. And the same prints were at Acton's house.”

“But why would they burgle Mr Acton's house? He's dead and nothing was taken,” Forrester said. 

“Nothing that you noticed,” Sherlock said. “You didn’t even know to look for it. Mr Acton's obituary in the local paper stated he had a keen interest in antiquities. He'd gifted a few pieces to the museum. But what if he had his own private collection no-one knew about?”

“Someone broke in to steal it?” John said.

“Yes and no. The break in was for two reasons. Firstly to make it easier to gain access to the property later and secondly to find Mr Acton's private collection. He probably stored it somewhere secret, behind a panel or under floorboards. Then there's the deeds to the house.”

“They couldn't sell the house because legal papers were missing,” John said, remembering what Alex Cunningham had told them.

“So why would someone want to prevent the sale of a house? Because they hadn't finished emptying out the collection. They could only do it in stages. They staged a break in, made it look like a burglary so they stole a few things, probably the first things they could get their hands on.”

“So no-one would guess what they were really after,” John said.

“Exactly. They've been back to the house a few times, the footprints were all recent and they matched the size and pattern of Alex Cunninghams.”

Alex grunted and strained in the detective's grasp.

“But what about Doctor Kirwan?” DI Forrester asked.

“How were they going to sell Acton's collection? Any dealer would be suspicious of something without a provenance. An archaeological dig turning up finds gives them a provenance. Some of them would have to go the museum but the museum would pay for them. As would any other collector.”

“What he had found wasn't that valuable,” Mr Cunningham said. “Just some coins and a broach.”

“Not yet but you were going to add the more valuable pieces. Alex Cunningham was there everyday to make sure Doctor Kirwan discovered the finds they wanted him to discover. They persuaded Vinnie here to help them sell them.”

“I needed the money,” Vinnie said.

“Shut up, Vinnie!” Alex yelled. 

“So why kill Kirwan? He'd found out that his site was fake?”

“The pottery in his hand, John, it hadn't come from the ground, it was clean. There were traces of a label. It had come from a collection, probably Mr Acton’s. Kirwan had found out hadn't he? Stumbled across where you were storing them? So you lured him to the dig site and killed him.”

“He wouldn't take any money!” Mr Cunningham complained. “We offered him a cut but he said no. Said we'd ruined his professional reputation.”

“He was going to use the site as a case study in his next book,” Vinnie said. “He was so excited.”

“Detective Inspector I think once you get a warrant and search the farm outbuildings you'll find the murder weapon and the antiques stolen from Mr Acton’s house.”

“Morris Cunningham and Alec Cunningham, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of William Kirwan,” DI Forrester said. “You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.”

John and Sherlock spent a few more days in Surrey. John had e-mailed Colonel Hayter with an update and in his reply he'd sounded disappointed to have missed all the fun. The case had certainly given Sherlock a burst of energy.

“How did you know what they were doing?” John asked on their last night as they sat in Colonel Hayter's living room.

“I knew Alex Cunningham was the burglar as soon as I saw his Wellingtons. There were pieces of gravel stuck in the tread, it matched the gravel near Mr Acton's house. His footprint was identical.”

“But you never said anything.”

“I thought it was a property dispute,” Sherlock said. “Boring if they had broken in to stop the house being sold.”

“When did you think it was about more than that?” John asked. 

“You did see the coins, John? You’d never get coins in that good a condition with the soil being that wet and acidic. They had to have come from somewhere else.”

“How did they know about the collection?”

“Alex Cunningham said his father and Mr Acton didn't get on. They obviously knew each other. Mr Cunningham may have tried to persuade Mr Acton to sell his collection.”

“And that's why they fell out?”

“It was a logical leap.” 

“Brilliant,” John said. He paused and then started giggling. “You were right about Alex Cunningham and his planting.”

Sherlock laughed. “I should have noticed earlier. Still this case, John. It's been interesting. We can come on holiday again.”

“You do realise not everywhere we go is going to have a crime to solve?”

Sherlock smiled. “I don't know about that. I read in the paper about a farmer called Addleton who was found dead inside a bronze age arrow. It's only in Wiltshire.”

In some ways, thought John, he would be glad when they got back to London. Sherlock Holmes never did take holidays, even when he was on one.


End file.
